The Unwanted Weasley
by Jadea
Summary: Ron's perspective of the GOF fight


Author: Jadea   
  


Disclaimer: If I did own Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, ect etc. I'd have more then eighty dollars in my bank account, now wouldn't I?   
  


Rating: Pg-13. Ron tends to swear a bit.   
  


Summary: Ron's thoughts after Harry's name is taken out of the GOF.   
  


_______________________________________________   
  


I just sat there, numb, hearing the words echo over and over, in my mind.   
  


Saw Dumbeldore pull out the scorched parchment, watched the shock and worry play over his face. . .and the realization hit me before he read it, and I knew, I knew, whose name he was going to call.   
  


I felt like I'd just been belted one by McGonagall; but my reaction was nothing to yours, Harry. You looked like you'd been told the Durlsey's had bought you a car, or that Snape wanted to give you a snog. You didn't look so much like the rug had pulled out from under you as the whole damn Hall had--and I didn't feel much better.   
  


So what did I do?   
  


Well, YOU sat there and stared at me numbly; I just sat and stared numbly back. Hermoine prodded you to get up and join the other champions. I just sat there, some of the Ravenclaws and even other Gryffindors clamoring, stretching and craning, to get a look at the empty space at the table you had just occupied.   
  


I guess. . .I guess that's when I started to get angry.   
  


But. . .no. Anger wasn't the first thing I felt, wasn't even the strongest emotion I felt, during those terribly long weeks when we weren't talking. Yes, I felt anger, and Yes, I felt Jealousy, and Yes, I acted like the King of the Prats. But as I sat there, between Seamus and empty space so recently occupied by my best friend, also known as--drumroll please--the Boy Who Lived, what I felt wasn't anger, or jealousy or hopelessness.   
  


I felt fear.   
  


And I didn't know why.   
  


Oh, I'd felt fear before. Plenty of times. You don't live with Fred and George, the Gruesome Twosome, the Terrible Twins, Prankster Pair Extraordinare--I could go on--without knowing fear. By the time I was seven, I'd learned that any toy, or piece of candy, or article of clothing, could and probably is booby trapped. For heaven's sake, I grew up with a ghoul directly above my room, and I had FIVE older brothers. So, yes, I knew fear. At home.   
  


I knew fear at school, too. I had never told you, Harry (and certainly never told Hermoine) but my knees were shaking and my teeth had been chattering all throughout the chess game our first year, trying to get to that stone. And when I had swung one trembling foot foward to face the Queen, I'd been so scared my entire body had gone numb.   
  


Numb. 

Kinda like I was now.   
  


But this. . .bloody hell, this was worse. Because I was scared and I didn't know why.   
  


Because I was alone.   
  


I walked out of the hall on numb legs, following behind Hermoine, who was already reciting a history of the Tri-Wizard Tournament for my oblivious ears. Neville was anxiously asking how many people had died doing the tournament, and Seamus and Dean were pestering me into telling them how you had gotten past the wards Dumbeldore had set up. So were Fred and George, who were full of nothing but praise for my best friend's success at crossing the age line. 

They assumed, of course, being your best friend, that I knew.   
  


But I didn't. If you had done it, you had left me out of it.   
  


You hadn't wanted me.   
  


It was one of the most painful thoughts I'd ever had.   
  


My best friend, Harry. . .hadn't wanted me. I'd gone on and on about how wizard it would be to participate, to do dangerous and daring tasks in front of the entire school, Dumbeldore and Beauxbatons, and the judges--how we'd done dangerous stuff before, and "wouldn't it be fun, Harry, wouldn't it be fun if we could do it together?"   
  


Because. . .there had never been any doubt in my mind.   
  


Tricking the cup. . .trying to get into the Tournament. . .we'd do it together.   
  


Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. The Dream Team, even Snape called us that, for Merlin's sake.   
  


But. . .you hadn't. You had done it somehow, By yourself. You were a champion, and I was just. . .   
  


And Ron Weasley.   
  


I guess that was when the jealousy began to kick in. It's like a recipie, right? Kinda like potions. Something Snape would love, I'm sure, the greasy haired git. "How to destroy a Friendship."   
  


Yup. Well, that's one potion I have down. Right pleasant one, too. Feels like acid in my stomach.   
  


Must be, cause it keeps eating away at me.   
  


I could deal. . .I could deal with the anger. I know I have a five alarm temper, I always have. Hey, in a family of seven, being the second to youngest and the youngest boy--if you don't stick up for yourself, you get nothing. So it wasn't the anger that had me gaping, grasping at straw's, trying to settle this roiling feeling that was making my fisted hands tremble and my eyes string. No, it wasn't the anger.   
  


And no matter what Hermoine said, it wasn't the jealousy either. I mean, sure, it'd reached new proprtions that night. . .I guess the goggle eyed first years climbing all over each other to get a glimpse of your empty chair did me in with that, but honestly, I'd worked through that. I felt the sharp bite from time to time, like when Snape called me your 'sidekick' second year, or the flush of heat in my face when we'd be introduced to someone and they'd never, ever see me because they were always looking at you, gaping at you, like they'd never seen a boy before, like you were the most wondrous thing they'd ever seen. And, to be fair, I'd done that too, first time we met. Gaped at you like a bleeding idiot, but you hadn't minded. So. . .it wasn't really the jealousy either. Not really. I was jealous, but only cause it showed me how truly and utterly useless I was, compared with you. You were famous, and I was nobody, but I'd wrestled with that demon for years and won every time.   
  


So. . it wasn't the anger. Nope, not the jealousy. It was the fear. This naseous feeling, like some icy fist was twisting my stomach. Fear for you, fear of the tasks--but, big prat that I was, most of my fear wasn't for you, Harry. . .it was of you.   
  


Suprised, eh?   
  


I guess I really didn't realize it myself till then, but every time. . .every time some upper classman bumped me aside to talk to you, every time some first year giggled and pointed when she (or he) saw you, every time we got stopped at Hogsmeade or the Three Broomsticks by yet another, "Oh-I'm-So-Honored-This-is-the-Greatest-Moment-of-my-Life-it's-Wonderful-to-Meet- you-in-Person-can-I-have-your-Autograph?" and they never, ever noticed me. . .every time that happened, I got a little more, just a little more certain that you'd see how utterly, truly useless I was. I saw it in every one else's eyes. . .I always thought it would only be a matter of time until I saw it in yours.   
  


I guess what I'm trying to say is that it was the fear that you'd already realized that you didn't need me. You'd entered the Tournament without me. That pretty soon I'd start to see the blank look in your green eyes; the one I got from everybody else, that told me you were looking and never seeing me, that I would fade, and become to you just what I am to everyone else--'cept maybe 'Moine.   
  


Just another Weasley.   
  


Six of Seven. Nothing special. I didn't want that. Couldn't stand the thought of you looking and not seeing me--of not being your friend. So I did--hell, the only thing I know how to do really well, 'cept play chess. I fought with you. But. . .you . . .you didn't fight by the rules.   
  


Snorts.   
  


Sounds wacked, I know. Downright nutters, even. But it's true, you great big prat! It wasn't supposed to go on that long. It wasn't supposed to last!   
  


You were supposed to yell at me, and I was supposed to yell at you. Then, when I was yelling, and furious, red faced and trembling from head to toe, I was supposed to let it out. The fear, the snake that had been slithering in my stomach. And you'd. . .answer. Tell me. Tell me I was needed, and wanted, and that, even if I was useless to everyone else in the world, I wasn't useless to you.   
  


But. . .you didn't yell.   
  


This was no brawl with Fred and George or Charlie, which ended in bloody noses and split lips and groundings and--ultimately--in quidditch matches and ice cream fights. Fighting with you, Harry. . .you didn't know how to fight and I didn't know what to do, so. . .we didn't do . . .anything.   
  


It was three of the most miserable weeks of my life then, still sleeping in the same room, eating at the same table. For endless days and weeks I watched you, wanting to see some sign, some small insignificant sign that you missed me. That was what I needed. All I wanted.   
  


Heh. That didn't happen. Hermoine'd been badgering you just like she'd been badgering me, and I heard her go after you, talking to you one day after Potions class, when I'd had to stay late in the room and clean up the fish eyes I'd thrown at Malfoy for hexing Hermoine. (Slimy Slytherin Git) You both were talking, softly--well, Hermoine was--but I reckon I heard anyway cause of all those weird echoes in the dungeons. Anyway, Hermoine said something like You missed me. . .and I missed you. Well, darned if she wasn't right, from the tips of her toes to the end of her nose, but I couldn't. . .and then you said, in this completely un-Harry voice;   
  


"Miss him? I do not miss him."   
  


And I guess all the chemicals from the potions and those slimy, disgusting specimens Snape keeps down there in his room to terrify everyone got to me, cause my eyes starting stinging real bad, and for a while there I couldn't breathe. I guess I knew then. . .kinda. . .that you were lying. But it seemed to sum everything up so perfectly, you know. Me, alone in a cold dark, spooky dungeon on my hands and knees, wiping up filth and You outside, just within earshot, once and for all denying that you needed me. And if I was so bloody miserable, and I knew I'd brought a lot of it on my self, but I had just wanted to know, and it wasn't supposed to have happened this way. I was alone, always had been, ever since Dumbeldore pulled that singed parchment out of the Goblet of Fire. I--hell. (Squirms) I don't really want to tell you this. . .but, you know, that night, Hermoine and I talked and I kinda. . .kinda cried. Just a bit. And my face was in her shoulder and her hair was really wild and springy and it smelled really nice, and I felt a little of the acid in my stomach drain away.   
  


So anyway, I talked a bit, and she told me to talk to you. She said that she knew you missed me and thatI missed you, that she was sick of being the go between. You know, typical Hermoine on a rant stuff--she even managed to slip something about Houseleves in there, I swear, and SPEW.   
  


So I promised. . .I promised her I'd talk to you, after I'd admitted--grudgingly--that maybe I missed you. Just a bit. Oy, Harry, I missed you more then just a damn well bloody bit. Hanging out with Fred and George is Ok, I guess, but you're always on the outside looking in. Kinda the same with Seamus and Dean. Nice guys, really, but I wasn't really there. Not an essential part of the group, if you know what I mean. So anyway, that night afer Hogsmeade, I wondered where you were and got a little worried when you didn't come up to bed. . .hey, no big deal, I just wanted to know what you were doing, s'all. And I went downstairs, and you were so angry. (How was I to know you were talking to Sirius?) And I got angry and I don't remember who said what. I have only the haziest memory of you throwing one of those flaming buttons at me. The only thing I truly remember was the look on your face. For a moment there. . .for a moment there, I think you hated me.   
  


No. That's not right. For amoment there, you hated everything about me. For a moment there, I hated everything about myself. But you didn't hate me. Get it? But not me, Ron Weasley. I guess that's when it all crashed over me. Right then and there, in the deserted Common Room with your footsteps echooing on the stairwell and my own large feet curled into the crimson coloured carpet, cold in my too small pajamas. You hated everything about me--and it was the most wonderful feeling in the world.   
  


You hated me cause you cared. Strange logic, I know, but true. You hated me cause I'd hurt you. . .far worse then I'd ever wanted or intended to. Sorry 'bout that, Mate. But you cared. You did. You did need me, and that's why you hated me. Does that make sense? (Snorts) Hell no, but its true. You needed me, and you hated me, and you loved me. And I loved you. I'd been a prat, and we were still fighting, but for the first time since the Goblet of Fire, I felt like I could breathe again, like some giant heavy weight that had been slowly crushing me had vanished. From then on, I knew we'd make up. We'd have to. We needed each other.   
  


I figured I'd talk to you after the First Task, and apoligize. Surely three years of unbroken friendship would allow me to say I was sorry. But then. . .things didn't work out like I'd thought, cause the first task was dragons. I never told you this, but I'd always been a bit scared of dragons. Not baby one's like Norbert (Though the little bastard did take a right good chunk outta my hand that one time) but big, grown up, bloody huge fire breathing dragons. Ever since Charlie came back once with a deep gash across his back that almost killed him, they' made me a little nervous. And Charlie worked and trained for years to do what he did. . .and he was one of the best there is. So I sat there with Hermoine watching you fly, and the dragon rear and strike at you. Hermoine just sat there with her fingers pressing into her face, not saying a thing, and I. . .I just sat there. Damn, that was bad. For a second when the Horntail got you on the arm--for a second there, I saw it wrench you off your broom and attack. I saw you hurt, maybe dying. . .and all I could think of was that you'd die, and I'd never get the chance to tell you I was sorry. My best friend, My best friend was hurt, and I couldnt do anything. I felt useless. Again.   
  


But. . .you pulled it out. Amazing flying Harry, really. You pulled it out and wowed them all. And 'Moine and I met you afterwards in the tent--I guess I looked like I'd just seen Snape naked, or something. I just couldn't get over the idea that you could have died, died, and that someone obviously wanted you to die to put your name in the cup, and then. . .I dunno what happened, but I think I tried to apoligize and you stopped me and told me to forget it. And I smiled at you, and you smiled back; then 'Moine went mad and ran off howling and stamping. And I just knew, for the first time since Halloween, that this was right. I'd been wrong for three weeks, but now things were right again. We were side by side. You needed me, and I needed you. And you wouldn't go through the rest of the tasks alone, cause I'd be with you. I'd help you.   
  


'Cause you're my best friend.   
  
  
  


The End 

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The prevailing thought is that Ron provoked the GOF fight because he was jealous, and yes, I think that's true. But I also think the idea that Harry would go off and enter himself in the tournament without Ron was what made Ron angry enough to fight. Remember, Hermoine's the one who tells us the whole reason Ron's being a prat is because he's jealous--Ron doesn't say anything. If people can write straight faced that Hermoine is really the thing that Harry would miss most because we don't know how the hostages were chosen, I can stick with my theory. 


End file.
